


Poor Communication Kills

by Orcbait (EmpressofMankind)



Series: Season of the Dragon [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Comedy, Dragons, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, High Fantasy, LGBTQ Character, Multi, NSFW, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sassy, Sex, Shameless Smut, no one is straight, polycule
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-01-11 02:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18421212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressofMankind/pseuds/Orcbait
Summary: If everyone communicated like responsible adults, none of this would be happening! Directly follows onto the recently released cinematic trailer for Elseweyr where Tharn accidentally sets dragons loose upon Tamriel. Mages are the reason we can't have nice things. Especially that mage.





	1. Dragon Run

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 3 has explicit content FYI

In retrospect, Uraea Rendryn found she’d enjoyed Grahtwood and learning more about Ramira Don's people. Well, half of her people, she had no inclination to go to Cyrodiil any time soon. Fortunately, neither did Ramira.

"It's beautiful here, I can see why the Green Pact came into being," Uraea remarked conversationally as they hiked towards the eastward mountains. It was past noon but with a little effort, they might reach them by nightfall. Ramira and Sjor - a tall, middle-aged Nord that Uraea was fairly sure was actually the Daedric Prince of Madness - strode beside her. They were eating cheese. Again. She'd have found the seemingly limitless supply and variety of the off-yellow dairy product that Sjor had evidently packed bizarre but in light of her suspicions as to his true identity, it made perfect sense. There were many things about Sheogorath that Dunmeri scholars hotly debated but his love of cheese wasn't one of them.

Ramira said something but all that came out of her mouth were crumbs of old cheese and eating noises. She stopped chewing abruptly. In fact, she stood still abruptly.

Uraea frowned, stopping as well. "I can't understand you when you have your mouth stuffed full of food, you know that," she said a tad impatient as she turned towards the half Bosmer. The latter was staring at something. "What is it?" she added as she followed her gaze, fully expecting some idiot trick from the third, and ever uninvited, member of their travelling party.

At first, she didn't see anything unusual. Trees, more trees, undergrowth, the open foothills towards the mountains... Her eyes narrowed. Running figures, in the distance. Running towards them, approaching fast. They should get off the road.

Uraea moved to the side, off the road and into the undergrowth. "We should--!" she started but realised Ramira wasn't with her. She was still standing in the middle of the road, staring. Alone. Sjor had disappeared. Typical. She furiously gestured at Ramira but she didn't respond. Bosmer sight was keener than those of her own ken. What had she seen that had dumbstruck her so?

"Remi!" Uraea called, her tone urgent as she clambered back up and onto the road. She hurried towards her and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her vigorously. "Remi!"

Ramira's gaze snapped to Uraea. She blinked as if surprised to see her. "Yes?"

"We have to get off the road before-!" Uraea's sentence faltered as an excessively tall man sprinted past. The split second that she saw him left her with an impression of a hawkish profile, the glint of red and gold armour and, most concerningly, a staff. Running mages were always bad news. They were invariably trying to outrun their problems. Too often literally. She was about to comment on it when another jolted past. Shorter, slighter, dark furry snout and a hood with cat ears. A Khajiit. How in Almsivi was an Imperial out legging a Khajiit in a flat out sprint?

She'd barely thought it or the mage skidded to a halt, turned on his heels and doubled back towards them.

"What in Almalexia's long and underused name-," Uraea uttered, still holding on to Ramira. She stopped shaking her. Ramira turned towards him, that same look of dumb surprise still plastered on her face.

The mage came storming back and Uraea opened her mouth to demand about fifteen separate answers to questions she had when he grabbed Remi in passing. He hooked an arm around her waist, bodily hoisted the Bosmer clean off the ground and under his arm, made another U-turn and booked it. He seemed not in the slightest impeded by the extra weight. If anything, Uraea thought he somehow managed to run faster yet. It happened so quick that it caught Uraea wrong-footed.

Her heart beat once. Twice. And only then her reflexes kicked in. She unslung her shield from her back in one fluid motion, bringing up the round metal disc like an oversized and absolutely lethal boomerang. She squinted, gauging the distance to his retreating backside, his height, his speed. She leaned back, aimed and swore under her breath: "You'll regret elf-napping my girl, Imperial scumbag-"

She'd genuinely thought, at first, she heard Red Mountain erupt behind her. Which was impossible, they were weeks away from Vvardenfell. Then she'd thought it an earthquake but the ground didn't shake. And as she stood there, watching him leg it, she heard something else. A slow, deep, woosh, like a gust of strong wind through a gulch. She realised it was the beating of wings. Very. Large. Wings.

The deafening sound came again and she knew it wasn't the roar of a volcano or the ground she stood upon. It was a dragon. She'd heard of them, of course. She knew they existed. But she'd never considered them, never given them any real thought. She turned as a long shadow cast across her. She felt as if moving through water. She looked up at the blue, blue sky. And the creature blotting out the sun.

"Did you know dragons taste like chicken?" Sjor remarked rather cheerful.

Uraea all but jumped out of her skin, leaping away from the Nord leaning over her shoulder. "By the three, stay away from me!" she yelled, her tone skipping an octave.

"It looks hungry. Do you think it knows what Dunmer tastes like?" Sjor continued quite unperturbed by the enormous, airborne lizard.

Uraea cast her gaze about, frantically looking for a place to hide. There wasn't one. To hide from two running strangers? Yes. From a dragon? Not so much. She became painfully aware of how everything within a mile in either direction was made of flammable material. Templebedamned! That's where they were going! She glared in the direction the Imperial and Khajiit - and Remi! - had disappeared. An old Ayleid ruin laid in that direction. They'd passed it earlier today. Two miles, tops. She found she suddenly desperately hoped the mage could run that far. Or a little over halfway, Remi was a perfectly good sprinter herself. Especially on the short distances.

Sjor watched the dragon approach. It had spied them among the trees. "Oh golly, it brought friends! Time to leave, I think!" Sjor grinned broadly as if this was all very amusing and grabbed her hand.

Uraea didn't even need to see the additional if smaller, dragons. She was happy to leave. They ran, though Uraea wasn't sure it would be any use. Until she saw their surroundings change. She almost stopped. Almost let go. But he dragged her along and just like that they were somewhere distinctly else.

A small town of sorts, no a hamlet, if even that. Vaguely Imperial looking. In fact, it reminded her a little of Seyda Neen. The gatehouse building, the little sprawl of homes. It was quiet though, not men or mer about. As her eyes came to rest on the great wall beyond them and then the double doors the road forking inland led to, something started to dawn on her. Something quite equally terrifying as a dragon.

"Tell me we aren't where I think we are," she stated, her tone flat.

"And here I thought you'd be happy I got us out of the mean ol' beastie's range!" Sjor replied with feigned hurt.

Uraea kept staring straight ahead of her, unwilling to see if the 'Nord' had changed in appearance as much as their surroundings. She closed her eyes when she heard the distinct tap of a cane on cobblestones.

" Return me to Nirn this instant," she demanded, her voice soft but lethal.

"I knew you wouldn't appreciate my fair Isles, this is why Remi is more fun than you. How ungrateful." An indignant huff escaped him. "That dragon sure thought you'd make a fine bite. I really was looking forward to dragon for dinner. Excellent with cheddar, ill have you know."

Uraea whirled around, her eyes still shut tight. She didn't know if the theory on whether looking the Prince in the eye would induce madness was true, but she was unwilling to risk it. Especially here. " RETURN ME TO NIRN THIS INSTANT!"

He voiced a noise of annoyance and she could well imagine his petulant expression. "Fine. It's nicer here!"

And then she was falling. Fast. Faster. The void roared in her ears like a living thing. It overpowered her very thoughts. And just as suddenly, there was silence. A wet splash. Warmth against her back and limbs. Soft, wet warmth. Soft, wet warmth she was slowly sinking into. Soft, wet warmth that reeked of decomposition and sulphur. She was fairly sure she was laying in a suspiciously her-sized puddle of manure.

Boot splashes beside her, the creak of someone wearing leather crouching down. "Nirn is so lovely, don't you agree?" Sjor.

Uraea sighed. "I hate you."


	2. Dragon Fight

By the time the Ayleid ruins came into view, the battlemage was breathing hard. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, almost drowning out the slow, deep swoop of the dragon's wings. It was toying with them as a cat might with mice. He hoped it'd remain oblivious to their destination a little longer.  
  
"How have you been, Abnur?" Ramira remarked cheerfully at long last, having forgone her dumbfound staring for a broad grin. He'd wondered how long that'd take. Seven and a half minute, if he was not mistaken. And he rarely was.  
  
"Busy," Abnur Tharn managed in between breaths. The half Bosmer wasn't particularly heavy - he was fairly sure she weighed less than his armour - but he was beginning to feel the additional burden. The strain had started to radiate up his left arm and into his shoulder.  
  
"You study too much," she observed. "You should get out more." He needn't glance down at her to know exactly the look on her face. Ironic, considering they were in the middle of Grahtwood nowhere running from a dragon, of all things.  
  
"I am out, am I not," he retorted as he shifted his hold on her in an attempt to relieve the strain in his shoulder. She slipped and clamped onto him in reflex, struggling for purchase on his armour. He grabbed hold of her sword belt to keep her from falling but the angle was awkward and he couldn't get any strength behind it to pull her back up. After a moment of frantic scrambling during which he somehow was able to keep a good pace, she managed to fit a boot between his backplate and the edge of his greaves. Clambering up and onto his shoulder, she lodged a leg against his breastplate and back.  
  
"What in the eight Divines are you--," he started but then he heard another sound. The unmistakable twang of a bow. "ARE YOU INSANE?" He didn't catch what she said in return, for it was drowned out by a furious roar.  
  
The air rushed away from them, like a sudden wind. Abnur stole a glance at their gargantuan pursuer across the shoulder she wasn't sitting on. Now, he wasn't someone easily unsettled. In fact, he prided himself in his ability to keep his head cool even under the direst of circumstances. However, glimpsing the red hot pulse racing up the dragon's long neck instilled a twitch of abject terror. He crushed it down with all the strength left to him.  
  
They were fast approaching the Ayleid ruins. In fact, they were nearly there. He forced his mind to focus, his mouth to shape the words of the incantation even though he had no breath left to speak them. The shield shimmered into existence a heartbeat before they were engulfed in flames. The fire stole what little remained of his breath. The heat was intense, despite the shield, even though it lasted only a moment. Its abating was punctuated by another furious roar. The dragon had realised they were no ordinary mice to be picked off whenever it pleased.  
  
A solid wall of air slammed into Abnur’s side and send him sprawling.  As he fell, he felt the distinct push of boots against his shoulder as the Bosmer sprang away. With a curse, he stumbled, rolled, righted himself and caught the dragon’s second Thu’um square in the chest. The full force of the shock wave blasted him clean off his feet. Worse, it tore his staff from his hand. He had to get it back, fast. His already abused shoulder struck the ground hard. He scrambled up, already mouthing through the alteration spell that would summon his staff back to him. He opened his hand to grasp it but closed his fingers on thin air. His gaze shot about his surroundings. When he spotted the staff, his heart dropped out of his chest. It was laying several dozen feet away, lodged beneath a dragon claw. The beast had landed and regarded him with bright, disturbingly intelligent reptilian eyes. It could make no facial expression and yet he’d swear it was smirking at him. And then it inhaled again.  
  
Ramira slung her bow on her back as she sprinted towards the distracted dragon. She grabbed one of her daggers and dived into a roll.  
  
The second Abnur saw her move to engage the dragon in melee with a single, bread-knife sized dagger, it was instantly crystal clear to him: she _is_ insane. Ramira rolled under the gargantuan beast, brought the blade up with both hands and jammed it into the soft inside of its wing claw. It roared in outrage as if struck by a weapon far greater. Its head swivelled around to glare at this new and unexpected menace. It lifted its wing, yanking the embedded blade from her grip, no doubt intent on stomping on her. Ramira grinned, snatched the staff from the mud and scrambled out of the way. Its claw slammed down and caved a hair’s breadth beside her. She ducked under its snapping maw and sprang back up on the other side. Turning with her momentum, she took the staff in a solid, two-handed hold and swung it the way you’d sooner swing a war hammer. It struck the dragon’s jaw with a ring that made Abnur winch. Unwilling to find out exactly how long it’d phase the beast, Ramira ran. She sprinted towards the mage and threw his staff ahead like a javelin. It flew straight and true, back into its owner’s hand.  
  
Abnur caught it mid-flight, light glinting off its metal as it reflected the setting sun. A peal resounded that Ramira wasn’t sure she’d heard with her ears and a shock wave of power rolled from him as the staff struck the ground. Ramira braced for it as she ran but it passed her by like a breeze. Behind her, the dragon roared. She chanced a glance across her shoulder and regretted it immediately. The dragon lunged after her and its neck alighted the moment before it belched fire.  
  
Abnur rushed through the spell as fast as he could and that was a considerable speed. He prided himself in his ability to weave complex spells swift and accurate. It was what separated decent battlemages from the truly great. War and death waited for no man, and on the battlefield, every second mattered. Speed was the edge that could turn the tide of a skirmish and a full-blown engagement alike. And his had been honed by a lifetime serving with the Legions. He may spell more fates with ink than magic these days but none who forgot he could have lived to regret it. He had seen the dragon turn to pursue Ramira, kindling its fire as it did. In the span of a heartbeat, he gauged the distance, assessed his reserves and paged through the vast array of spells he had at direct recall. They were too far apart, he wouldn’t be able to shield them both. The dragon was gaining fast. A shield would do nothing against teeth. He discounted three more spells and was rushing through the fourth by the second heartbeat. An unconventional choice but then he’d never considered himself conservative regarding magic. He smiled as he weaved the complex spell at neck-break speed. He hadn’t lived to 165 by making obvious choices.  
  
Ramira ran as fast as her legs would carry her but she was beginning to fear that wasn’t going to be enough. Her lungs were burning. So were her legs, for that matter. She sprinted towards the battlemage. He was clearly casting something and she’d rather be at his back when he unleashed it. She knew perfectly well his expertise was the School of Destruction. When the ground started to move beneath her, she dived into a roll across the last dozen feet, coming up in time behind him to see a veritable cliff surge towards the sky. A split second later a deafening boom resounded. Cracks shot through the craggy rock face as a curtain of dirt and chips came down but it held.  
  
“That’s pretty neat,” Ramira remarked as she rose and looked up at the completely unnatural edifice. It was easily over 20 metres high and twice that in width.  
  
Abnur pursed his lips, a frown creasing his brow. A deafening roar came from behind the cliff, making it tremble. “ I think we may have pissed it off.”  
  
“Can you explode it, like, from the inside?” Ramira enquired, looking far too excited at the prospect of bursting a dragon like overripe fruit. “Or is it too big? Maybe just it's head? I think that’d kill it!”  
  
“You’d think I’d have done that if I could do that,” he observed as he looked up at his handiwork. Good to know the elemental wall worked as well against a dragon as it did siege engines. Though, probably, not quite as long. Siege engines couldn’t fly.  
  
“Right.” She looked disappointed which he realised he couldn’t stand. It wasn’t a look he was particularly used to getting. Ramira drew her daggers but only then remembered one was probably still lodged in the dragon. Shit. And her back up was in Uraea’s pack.  
  
“Here.”  
  
She glanced up. Abnur held out a short, curved dagger to her. It possessed a faint glow.  
  
“Won’t you need it?” she asked as she looked from the fancy blade to him and back. It seemed rather valuable. It was enchanted, too.  
  
“If this fight is going to hinge on me stabbing a dragon with a dagger then we’re already dead,” Abnur replied as he gestured as to give it to her. Her expression lit up as she accepted the blade and tested its balance. Her obvious delight made him smile despite himself. When he heard the, by now unpleasantly familiar, swoop of wings, he grabbed the mesmerised Bosmer by the back of her jacket and pulled her with. “Time to go.”


	3. Into The Ruins

Ramira turned to look over her shoulder when a large shadow cast across them as they ran. She couldn’t help it. The dragon sat perched on the conjured cliff, the setting sun behind it ringing it in fire. It squinted at them, its head swaying. She wondered why. It reminded her a little of a cat right before… with a deafening roar, the dragon dived towards them.  
  
Abnur saw Ramira turn and, worse, slow down as she did so from the corner of his eyes. Her eyes, in turn, became notably larger than they already were. He needn’t look, as the dramatically increasing size of the shadow across them told him all he needed to know. “If you’re this interested in them, I have a book on dragons,” he snapped as he hoisted the Bosmer over his shoulder and covered the last metres to the Ayleid ruin as fast as his long legs would carry them, climbing the stairs to the entrance well two steps at a time. The ground shook under the perusing dragon at their heels.  
  
"This way!" Khamira shouted as she popped up from the entrance well. The air rushed away. Her ears drooped and her eyebrows shot up in alarm. Abnur stormed past, missed several steps on the way down, started to fall but somehow managed to grab the Khajiit by her weapon belt and yank her with a heartbeat before a gout of fire scorched everything overhead.  
  
And then they were well and truly falling down the hewn stone staircase as the dragon scrambled after them. It slammed into the entrance, sending a shower of dust and dirt down from the ceiling. Its roar shook the foundations of the ancient ruin as it tried to get in. There was no way. Fortunately, it was a long way down and there was no way it could reach them now. Unfortunately, it was a long way down and they hit every step along the way. Khamira rolled and turned with her momentum, leaping the last step and landing neatly on her feet, her fingertips touching the ground for balance. Behind her, the man and mer collapsed on the packed dirt floor with decidedly less grace.  
  
Khamira was already up and away, disappearing among the stone columns as she scouted ahead.  
  
Abnur grimaced, he was laying on his back, lights glimmering at the edge of his vision and every inch of his body hurting. He closed his eyes as he tried to regain control of his breathing. He could feel his heart pound in his chest in an undeniably unhealthy manner.  
  
Ramira pushed herself up into a sitting position at his waist, hands on his breastplate as she shook her head as if that'd cure the dizziness of falling end over end a dozen times. "Are you OK?" she asked, tapping his breastplate for emphasis. He had his eyes closed and was scowling rather terribly.  
  
"No," Abnur replied tersely.  
  
Ramira observed him for a moment and then leaned down to press a kiss against his lips. She grinned when he opened one eye. "Better?"  
  
"I can't tell yet," he replied as he reached for the back of her head, pulled her down again and kissed her.  
  
She responded immediately, energetically, her kisses demanding as her hands moved from his breastplate to the gaps between his neck and spaulders. They fit there exactly. She sat up on her knees and he missed the light press of her weight against his loins immediately. She leaned further down, kissing harder, fingertips digging into the supple leather of his tunica. It forced his head back against the stone floor with a snap. He winced and made a noise not entirely from pain.  
  
He moved his hand from the back of her head to her neck, feeling the thin but strong muscles there work under his palm as they kissed. He reached for her waist with his free hand, moving it to her hip and tracing the shape of the bone there before pushing his fingertips under the edge of her pants. Granted, pants was an overstatement. Bosmer didn't appear to believe in proper pants. It was more of a leg wraps and loincloth kind of affair. He'd quickly grown fond of it as he'd realised it was rather convenient. He doubted that was by accident. Harebrained or not, there was no reason to wear that with her Imperial scout armour unless she desired to. Her kisses were incessant and it was leaving him short of breath trying to keep up. A smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he pushed the loincloth's pteruges aside. He knew how to even the odds.  
  
She whined in pleasure when she felt his fingers press inside, breaking their kiss as she leaned up. She pushed her hips into his palm, desperate to draw more from his touch. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, closing on his trapezius on either side of his neck like small vices. Twin jabs of pain shot along the taut muscles and up his spine which in turn send a sharp spike of pleasure straight to his loins. He grimaced in reflex, straining under her grip despite himself. She whimpered and kept pushing her hips against his touch, a tremble of pleasure making her shiver when his fingertips found all the right places. A choked whine escaped her when he pressed the third finger alongside the other two, sending a twitch of pleasure up her spine that was so intense it might as well be pain. She pulled her hips back in reflex, his touch slipping from within her and missing it immediately.  
  
"I know you like that," he said as he soothingly stroke her outer folds.  
  
"Don't stop." Her breath came in pants, her mouth a little open, just an edge of teeth visible between her lips. "Need more," she managed. Her fist struck his shoulder for emphasis.  
  
A self-satisfied smile played around his thin lips as he regarded her. "Well, come here then, little mer," he said as he tugged her hips down and towards him. She shifted along, her knees slipping from his shoulders and striking the floor on either side of his head. That'd leave bruises, but she couldn't care less. He tugged her closer still, enjoying the shiver of anticipation that rippled through her taut muscles when she felt his warm breath against her thigh. She whimpered when he kissed her sensitive skin, pitching into a whine when his tongue traced every soft fold before exploring deeper. He held her hips firmly in place, enjoying the subtle taste of her and the noises she made. The muscles in her abdomen flexed and rippled but he held her put. There was no real strength behind her responses. Not yet.  
  
She leaned back, placing her hands behind her for support, the metal of his breastplate solid and cool under her palms. She whimpered as warm pleasure quickly gathered at the base of her spine. Her mouth was a little open, her eyes almost closed. She gazed at the high ceiling above but didn't see it, not really. When one of his hands wandered down to touch her as well she arched her back and pressed down towards it, her hands searching for something to hold onto and closing around an edge of steel. Her thighs flexed in response to the spike of pleasure, she couldn't help it. She strained towards it as a whine for more escaped her.  
  
Feeling the brief strength flexing behind her involuntary movement send a jolt of anticipation down his spine. She was close, he could tell. He braced his hold on her, placing his forearms between his neck and her thighs. He knew exactly how much force the small half mer could muster. It surely wasn't a bad way to go, but he wasn't tired of living just yet. He secured his hold on her and then increased his efforts. The strength behind her pushes rapidly increased in response until tremors of pleasure broke them. It took a long moment before they subsided into trembles.  
  
After she'd come down from her high, she let out a satisfied sigh and shifted back to sit at his waist, then leaned down to lay on her stomach, on his chest, and folded her hands under her chin.  
  
"Do _you_ feel better, now?" he remarked, his amused look distinctly smug. He reached up to tuck a bang of hair behind one of her antlers.  
  
She glanced up at the top corner of her eyes, as if in deep thought. When she caught his gaze again she rested her cheek on her hands, a positively impish look squinting her bright eyes. "I can't tell yet."  
  
His smile turned markedly wry at hearing his own words quoted back at him.


	4. Daggers And All That

Ramira’s little smirk reminded Abnur of his fourth wife, who'd been prone to tricks as well. A Legion archer and scout of some renown, she'd turned out to be ruthlessly ambitious, too. He realised he missed her, in some ways.  
  
Ramira observed the battlemage. He was looking at her but his thoughts had teleported a thousand miles away. She leaned forward, pressing kisses against his lips until his gaze shifted into focus. She rested her chin on her hands once more. "What are you thinking?"  
  
Abnur reached up to stroke her freckled cheek and ran a finger along the edge of her not quite round ear. “That you remind me of Aurelia Naevius.”  
  
A curious expression appeared on the Bosmer's face. “Aura Eagle-Eyed?” She knew of the famous Imperial archer. She'd been very good, even by Bosmer standards.  
  
"The one," he agreed. Now that, for the time being, they were safe, the whole shooting-mundane arrows-at-an-enraged-dragon debacle amused him. "She'd aim for rather ridiculous targets too."  
  
"Like aiming for you?" Ramira teased.  
  
Abnur's smile turned wry at that. "Now how would you know about that, hm? A little before your time, I think." Granted, he had no real idea of how old Ramira was. Undoubtedly, she was older than she appeared - and she appeared into her fourth decade - for Bosmer, like all mer, aged slowly.  
  
"I recognised her portrait in your study," Ramira said but then her expression turned sad and he hated it. "I was a sprout when she served.” Based on that fact and some quick mental arithmetics, Abnur theorised she must be some 70 to 75 years old. “I wasn't very good when I was little,” Ramira continued. “They would say it is because I'm half like you, not of the Green. But pa would always remind me that Aura could shoot like the best of us.”  
  
Abnur wasn't remotely sentimental. In fact, he considered it a personality flaw. Regardless, her dejected look made him feel all kinds of unhappy. He tilted her chin up, making her look at him. "You are very good," he surmised, a smirk twitching the corners of his lips up. "Also at archery."  
  
“Well then, if the great Abnur Tharn approves!” Though her tone was a shade mocking, a smile had breached through her sad frown at his words.  
  
“He does," Abnur confirmed as he pulled her towards him and kissed her. Ramira responded, unfolding her arms and holding his face with both hands. He kneaded the back of her neck and she rather liked the soothing gesture.   
  
After a few moments, Ramira broke their kiss. "I seem to recall she passed away under suspicious circumstances." Her eyes squinted with amused accusation.  
  
“Ah, I loved her,” Abnur replied with good humour. "And underestimated her ambitions beyond the Legions."  
  
Ramira leaned on her elbow, her hand against her cheek. "I imagine you have killed people for less,” she observed. Though her tone was serious, it was clear she was trying not to laugh. It was hard because the affronted look on his face was positively hilarious.  
  
"She tried to poison me, I'll have you know!" Abnur huffed.  
  
"I suppose the Imperial Council has room for only one Chancellor? " Ramira said, no longer bothering to hide her amusement.  
  
"She was a clever one, I loved her for that," he mused. "But yes, there's by law only one and we all know that's me."  
  
Ramira leaned down to press a kiss against his self–satisfied smile. She didn't know precisely how long he'd held the seat but she knew he'd served the Imperial Council for over a century. "Are you sure that you haven't become part of the furniture?" she teased.  
  
"I do know a Bosmer that keeps mistaking me for a bedroll," he replied as he crooked an eyebrow.  
  
Ramira laid back down, crossing her hands under her chin. "A chaise, maybe," she disagreed. She shifted as if to make herself comfortable, moving a hand down to push the pteruges of his armour aside and rub her palm along his loin. “Though kind of hard,” she remarked, her tone sceptical. The snort of amusement that drew from him made her smile.  
  
Abnur tugged her up towards him. “It will be, if you keep that up,” he mused before kissing her again. Her eyes squinted with mischief as she responded to his kiss. She pressed her hand along his loins, palming his length through the fine fabric of his pants. Her touch send languid waves of pleasure rolling up his spine. His own hands had found their way back to her waist. “What are your ambitions, hm?” he asked.  
  
A light frown creased Ramira’s brow, her touch slowing down as she considered. She wasn’t sure she had them. Not like other mer and men did. They all seemed to want to achieve things, especially great things. Though they had different ideas of what ‘great’ meant, she’d found. “I don’t know,” she replied.  
  
“A renowned archer or famous painter?” Abnur proposed but she shook her head. “Surely, there is something you meant to achieve?”  
  
Ramira shrugged. “I meant to see you again?”  
  
“That’s not an ambition.” Abnur shook his head at her comment, a look on his face as if she were a particularly dense five-year-old. He supposed it’d been a while. He’d spend months researching the Wrathstone tablet and the past weeks tracking down the triangulants and exploring the Halls of Colossus. Ramira had brought him a journal of Bosmeri lore that referenced Khunzar-ri though. When had that been? Certainly not this week but definitely somewhere this month.  
  
Ramira observed him as he thought. She knew he was contemplating something because his expression had shaped into what she considered his ‘thinking-look’. He’d frown just so, and squint a little as if trying to read something written in very fine print. “What’s your ambition?” she asked, guessing that was what his thoughts had wandered to.  
  
Abnur’s gaze snapped to hers and the thoughtful look disappeared. “I mean to restore the Empire,” he answered without batting an eye.  
  
Curious confusion etched itself onto Ramira’s heart-shaped face. “I thought you wanted to regain your position as Imperial Battlemage and advisor to whomever becomes the next Emperor or Empress?”  
  
“That too,” Abnur agreed. He tapped her nose for emphasis. “You can have more than one ambition.”  
  
“Really?” Ramira replied, disbelief plain in her tone. “How many can you have?”  
  
“You can have as many as you like,”  he said, an amused smile playing around his lips. The half Bosmer seemed rather amazed at the prospect. “Though I’ve found limiting oneself to two, maybe three, is best,” he added. “Presuming you do actually mean to achieve them.”  
  
“I see.” Ramira turned on her back at that, laying on his chest, and gazed up at the high ceiling above for a long moment. “Do you miss Imperial City?” she asked eventually.  
  
“I suppose,” he mused. “It was strange, no longer going there on a daily basis.”  
  
“I miss running messages to White-Gold,” she remarked.  
  
Abnur crooked an eyebrow. “I am sure the Dominion has no shortage of messages for you to run to their field commanders.” It’d been nearly four years and Imperial City was still a hotly contested warzone. A new Empress or Emperor was proclaimed all but every week. It had to stop.  
  
Ramira pursed her lips. “I don’t think I ever want to go to White-Gold for a reason that isn’t you.”  
  
Abnur’s eyebrows rose in surprise at her frank comment, touched despite himself. “No career in Imperial politics for you then, little mer,” he remarked as he wrapped his arms around her, folding his hands across her stomach.  
  
"I wouldn't be very good at it,” she replied, thoughtful. “I think, I’d stab them all before long."  
  
His smile turned wry at that. "Some times, the solution to a political impasse is a sharp implement between the 4th and 5th rib."  
  
"So, that's why you have a dagger," Ramira surmised as she turned back onto her stomach, leaning her chin on her hands. It wasn’t entirely obvious if she were joking or not. He crooked an eyebrow in response. Her next words, certainly, were serious: “are you sure you don’t want it back?”  
  
Ramira moved to sit up as if to draw the dagger now sheathed at her hip but Abnur tightened his embrace, pulling her back down. He moved one hand to the back of her head and kissed her. "Keep it," he said against her lips, before a smirk curled his. "Though try to resist the urge to stab me with it, that'd be ironic."


	5. Mystery Mage

“Who in Hircine’s hairy ass was that?” Uraea demanded as she opened her eyes. 

Sjor crouched beside her exactly the way she’d imagined. He gave her his patented grin: broad and teethy. Glee shone behind his blue eyes. “I don’t think he’s climbed Hircine but I bet he wouldn’t mind.”

“Remi clearly knew him or she’d have protested.” Uraea ignored Sjor. She so didn’t need the mental image of anyone attempting to fuck the Huntsman. She sat up. “Was dung absolutely necessary?”

“No, but it was fun!” Sjor was terribly chipper and in Uraea’s experience that was always bad news.

“Undo it, right now.”

“Maybe if you say ‘please.” Sjor leaned towards her before immediately leaning way back. “Whew, you stink.”

Uraea glared at him. “Please,” she said then, rolling her eyes.

“I didn’t quite catch that.” Sjor inspected his nails, a pleased smile dancing across his face.

Uraea gritted her teeth. “I would be very grateful if you removed this dung from me.”

Sjor grinned broadly and she realised her mistake then and there. She was about to further specify but a deluge of water smothered her. “Better?” he enquired.

The dung was certainly gone but now she was soaked down to her undergarments. It would take an age for her armour to dry and it would chafe until it did. “Forget I asked,” Uraea huffed. "If you don’t know who that was, just say so." She'd about had it with the Prince's idiot tricks. 

"That was Varen's own Haskill. Except, much less fun."

"What even does that mean," Uraea huffed, crossing her arms. 

"The late Emperor's pet battlemage and Grand Chancellor of the most boring tea party.”

Uraea crooked an eyebrow.

“Abnur Tharn.” Sjor intoned the name like the punchline of a particularly good joke.

Uraea knew a thing or two about the former Empire, other than that it was currently in shambles. For instance, that they had an Emperor who must always be of the bloodline of First Empress Alessia. Uraea imagined that wasn’t always the case and if she recalled correctly, it had been the reason for the rebellion that saw Varen Aquilarious on the Ruby Throne. Despite this, the tedious details of actual governing fell to the hands of the Imperial Council, comprised of the most ancient and wealthy of the Empire’s families. Not unlike the Great Houses of Morrowind, really. Councillors, they called these men and women. The Grand Chancellor was the head of the Imperial Council and the most prominent voice among his equals. She’d heard of Abnur Tharn the way you heard about all bad news: incessantly and too early in the morning. Allegedly, he’d been involved in both the fall of the Longhouse Emperors and the planemeld. Adding dragons, of all things, to that tally didn’t seem nearly as preposterous as it should. How in the four unstable corners would he know Ramira though? She loved that Bosmer but she wasn’t exactly upper crust.

Uraea glanced at Sjor. He looked like he was enjoying himself far too much. Clearly, he was lying through his teeth and was amused by the fact that she was actually considering his words at face value. She shook her head. He was jerking her chain, there was no way in Oblivion that Imperial was the skeevy politician. 

“You could have just said you don’t know,” she snapped as she shouldered her pack and started down the road, south, towards the coast and the small port town of Haven. There was a modest Mages’ Guild there. She’d contact and ask Neramo, he’d know.

Haven was a backwater of a coastal town by virtually every measure. However, for Grahtwood, it was positively cosmopolitan. Uraea made a bee-line for the Mages’ Guild house, situated on a cliff near the shore. In truth, ‘guild house’ was something of an overstatement. The building was, for all intents and purposes, a very modest library with a second floor dorm that could house six if you really wanted to. She wondered if the battlemage had stopped by. He must have come through Haven, it was the only expedient travel connection to Grahtwood. The few magically inclined friends Uraea had always insisted on dropping by the local guild quarters when they arrived at a town that had one. She should keep her ears pricked, in any case.

Uraea didn’t think Imperials were a usual sighting in this area. The battlemage had been the first Imperial they’d come across since their own arrival. Not too strange, considering Grahtwood was officially Dominion territory even if the Bosmer only nominally agreed to being part of the Aldmeri hegemony. She knew, for example, that Ramira considered herself part of no allegiance safe the Green Pact. Which may well explain why she was on friendly footing with an Imperial. They hadn’t gotten up to anything nefarious in the region in recent memory. Altmer, on the other hand…

Uraea left the bustle of the seaside boulevard for the studious silence of the Mage’s Guild. The interior was lit by the dim glow of candles, casting their orange light upon the tall bookcases and throwing the countless spines in stark relief. The smell of burning wick almost overpowered the musty atmosphere. The crackle of candles and the scratch of a quill were the only sounds. The scrape and clang of Uraea’s plate armour as she entered was loud and jarring. The scratching quill stopped and the mage looked up. She was older than Uraea had first thought. Small lines accented the corners of her eyes and a permanent frown had etched itself unto her nose bridge. Her gaze fixed Uraea in place. “The Fighters’ Guild is across the street.”

“I’m not looking for the Fighters Guild.”

The mage’s eyebrow rose to an impressive height. Her quill hovered above the parchment, having finished the last sentence but not yet started the next.

“I need to contact an acquaintance,” Uraea added. “I would like to use the Guild’s astral contract services?”

“Are you a member?”

Uraea shifted her weight. “No. But I can pay.”

“I should hope so.” The mage pursed her lips. “We don’t run a charity.”

“No, of course not. I understand.” Uraea was still standing in the doorway, her hand on the doorpost. The mage returned her attention to her work. The scratching of the quill resumed.

Uraea shifted her weight again. “I’d like to do so now.”

The scratching stopped but the mage didn’t look up. “Illeas will be with you shortly.”

Uraea looked up at the ceiling and counted to ten. And then to twenty. By the time she reached 160, a younger mage came clambering down the ladder to the loft.

“Apologies,” he said as he wiped his hands on his robes to dry them. “I was elbow deep in an experiment on the properties of troll fat under different temperature conditions.” An acrid scent accompanied him. Uraea wrinkled her nose despite herself. She wasn’t squeamish but he stank of piss drenched leather. To call it unpleasant was an understatement.

“I want to contact an acquaintance.”

He nodded energetically. “I can do that. This way, please.” He led Uraea further into the Mages’ Guild. Her armour banged around her like it always did but compared to the whisper of his robes it was positively deafening. She felt like an intruder. A noisy, boorish intruder.

“By what name does your acquintance go?”

“Neramo.”

A smile split the young mage’s face. “I read his treatise on Bthzark, very interesting. I hope to one day visit the ruin myself and study it with his work as a guide.”

Uraea recalled the adventure on Stros M’kai all too well. Neramo was her age but his boundless enthusiasm and excitable nature always made her forget that he wasn’t green-eared. Well, not completely green-eared. “You should mention that to him.”

They entered a small, circular room. In the centre laid a star-shaped mosaic of shimmering blue crystal. Uraea suspected it would function as some sort of a focus. Her suspicion was confirmed when Illeas stepped onto a point of the star and closed his eyes. “This will take a minute.”

Uraea waited. She didn’t understand the precise nature of astral projection. She wondered if he could have contacted a stranger, merely using their name. 

“He’ll project back here,” Illeas said far sooner than she’d expected.

“Did you mention you enjoyed his work?”

“Yes! He said he’d love to hear my thoughts!” Illeas beamed. “I’ll have to compile my notes!”

“That’s wonderful,” Uraea said and she meant it.

It was only a short while before Neramo appeared in the purple monochrome of astral projection. He smiled a wide, genial smile when he saw her. “Lady Rendaryn, Uraea, how good to see you!”

“Hello Neramo.” Uraea smiled in turn. It had been a while since their adventures in Stros M’kai and Alik’r.

“Tell me what I can assist you with, Auri-El knows I owe you many times over!” They were serious words though he said them with good humour.

Uraea dismissed his expression of debt with a hand wave and a smile. “What are friends for if not to pull you from the blades of a short-circuiting centurion?”

Neramo’s eyes squinted and his smile became wider still. “A narrow escape and daring rescue.”

Uraea nodded. Her smile had faded, for she had remembered why she’d called on him. She looked at her shield. She should have thrown it. She should have stopped the Imperial. That Remi knew who he was, was an assumption, a guess, really. What if she didn’t? What if-

“Uraea, what’s wrong?” Neramo’s projection stood beside her, one ghostly purple hand on her pauldron.

“Ramira has been kidnapped.” Uraea’s voice hitched and she hated it. “A mage. I need you to help me identify him. I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“I will do my best, I do know many of my peers. What did he look like?” His words were encouraging and the little shake he gave her shoulder was reassuring. Still, Uraea felt more foolish by the second. What were the odds that Neramo happened to know the man?

“An Imperial. Shoulders like a soldier.” Uraea frowned, focusing on the snap-shot glances she’d gotten of the mage as he stormed by. On the fraction of a second their gazes had crossed. “He was tall, even for an Imperial, I do think. About this tall.” She held her hand some distance above Neramo’s head and an inch above her own. “Fair complexion. Old. Grey.” She made a gesture towards herself and then her chin. “Long hair, balding, goatee.” She felt like she’d just described 80% of the non-Mer members of the Mages’ Guild.

Neramo nodded, his expression patient and encouraging. “What else?”

Uraea raked her memory for details. “Blue eyes. Scar, here.” She indicated her right eye. “Cuts of a sort, a beast, maybe? Not a recent injury.”

“What about his clothing?” Neramo tapped his chin. 

“Imperial?” Uraea shrugged. “Plate. Gold with red cloth. Probably a battlemage. No doubt defected from the Legions, by the looks of him.” Uraea’s eyes became wide and then very, very small. “The bastard wore a ring of Mara.”

A smile returned to Neramo’s face. “A battlemage, you say? Eagle-winged staff, perchance?”

Uraea nodded.

“Seemingly unafraid to wear blatantly Imperial Legion armour and empire iconography despite it having been reduced to rubble a few years ago?”

A hint of a hesitant smile appeared on Uraea’s face. She nodded again. Did Neramo know who it was? Could that be possible? What were the odds, really?

Neramo beamed. “It’s Abnur Tharn.”

Uraea stared at him. Was he serious? The Altmer looked pleased with himself, confident in his answer. He didn’t appear to be joking.

“Are you all right, Uraea?” A frown returned to Neramo’s brow. He touched her shoulder.

“That’s impossible. You’re mistaken.”

“Uhm.” Neramo was fairly sure he wasn’t. Something was wrong.

Uraea raised her hand, palm outward in disagreement. “For all the years that I’ve known her, Ramira has managed to stick her hands down the pants of many colourful personalities but the erstwhile Imperial Battlemage? That’s absurd, even for her.”

As the Dunmer spoke, the strangest sense of deja vu came over Neramo.

“No offence to my pea-brained sweetheart but the Somebodies of the former Empire don’t exactly frequent the Anvil gutters.” Uraea shook her head resolutely. “I realise my description is vague, at best, and could be many of your senior colleagues.”

“Uraea-” Neramo wanted to ask what was wrong but she interrupted him.

“No, you don’t have to ask, Neramo.” She smiled, amused, her tone good-humoured teasing. “If, by some unlikely alignment of the moons, it is that magic-hurling wordsmith she’s banging, I’ll make sure to give him your treatise on Dwemer ruins.”

“…that’s not what I wanted to say.”

Uraea chuckled. “Of course not.”

Neramo frowned.

Uraea turned and raised her hand in goodbye. “It was good to see you, Neramo.” It would seem she’d have to figure this out on her own. No matter, she’d think of something. She always did.

Illeas came to stand besides Neramo as they watched the Dunmer leave. “Were you able to help her?”

“I thought I did?” Neramo shook his head. “Her reaction was… strange.”

“Really? Her reaction seemed normal to me.” Illeas looked at Neramo, who glanced back at him. “I mean, for someone whose partner was kidnapped by a stranger. And given I understand their relative unimportance right, your proposed identification does seem unlikely.”

Neramo clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer was written there. “Yes, it is extremely unlikely. It is also correct.”

Illeas eyebrows rose.

Neramo looked back at Illeas, concern etched onto his face. He had remembered why her words had struck him as familiar. It wasn’t a misfiring of neurons, she had said those exact words before. She had been as incredulous then as she was now. “Chancellor Tharn isn’t a stranger to her. They’ve known each other for ten years.”

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such, it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought of it! And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


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